Page 26 of Silent Night

He paced across the wooden floor, each creak of the floor loud in the small shack and amplifying his agitation. Periodically, he paused to peer out the window, his eyes scanning the dirt road that snaked through the dense trees outside. The once familiar view now seemed ominous, as if danger lurked behind every shadow.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the pounding in his chest.

This shack had always been Jenson's refuge, his sanctuary from the world. As a child, he'd discovered it abandoned and dilapidated, a forgotten relic tucked away in the woods. He'd spent countless hours there, hiding from the harsh realities of life beyond those broken walls.

As he grew older, he'd taken it upon himself to repair the shack, transforming it into his own private haven. In this place, he could escape the judgmental gazes of those who knew him, letting go of the mask he wore for the rest of the world. Here, he was free.

Or at least, he used to be.

Now, with every news update and police announcement, the shack seemed less secure. Could they find him here? Would they trace him back to this place he held so dear?

"Pull yourself together," he whispered harshly, but the doubt lingered, gnawing at his thoughts like a relentless rodent.

He stared out the window again, searching for any signs of approaching danger, but none appeared. The quiet rustle of leaves and the distant call of birds did little to alleviate his paranoia, however. He knew, deep down, that he couldn't stay hidden forever; eventually, they would come for him.

"Come on, Jenson. You're safe here. They'll never find you." His voice wavered as he tried to reassure himself, pacing back and forth. His eyes darted to the gun safe in the corner, a heavy, dark object that seemed to cast an imposing shadow over the room. He imagined how he would fortify this place, barricading the door and windows with whatever he could find. If the police came, he'd be ready. He'd fight them off, picking them off one by one. They wouldn't take him without a fight.

The television continued to drone on in the background, only heightening his anxiety. The newscaster's words pierced through his thoughts like needles, causing his heart to race even faster.

"…and now, we turn to another expert to discuss the type of evidence a killer like this might leave behind."

"Thank you, Susan. Often, in cases like these, the perpetrator may leave behind fingerprints, hair, or even DNA evidence. As they strangle their victims, there is a high likelihood that the attacker's skin cells will be present under the victim's fingernails, providing crucial evidence for investigators."

Jenson's breath hitched, his mind racing with the implications of what he'd just heard. Had he been careful enough? The fear and anger coiled in his chest like a vise, threatening to choke him. In a sudden burst of rage, he grabbed the remote and turned off the television, then hurled the remote across the room.

"Damn it!" he said, his hands trembling as he wiped sweat from his brow.

The silence that followed was oppressive, suffocating him with a weight that felt unbearable. He stared at the now-dark screen, barely able to process the information that had been laid bare before him. His own potential mistakes, his possible carelessness – each piece of damning evidence he might have left behind – haunted him like specters.

"Get a grip, Jenson. You've done this before. You can do it again." This brought him little comfort, however.

His attention was drawn to the gun safe again, and a cold resolve settled over him like a shroud. His fingers trembled as he approached it.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath, "time to prepare for the worst."

He punched in the combination, and the heavy door swung open, revealing an assortment of firearms and ammunition stacked neatly inside. Various handguns, shotguns, and rifles glistened under the dim lighting of the shack. Jenson's hand reached for a semi-automatic rifle, his grip shaking as he lifted it from its resting place.

"Damn it, focus!" he growled at himself, fumbling with the magazine before managing to slide it into place.

With the rifle now loaded, Jenson hurried over to the window, his eyes scanning the dirt road that snaked through the trees beyond. He took a swig from his beer, the bitter liquid doing little to calm his frayed nerves. The paranoia that had taken root in his mind stretched out tendrils of doubt, whispering a litany of fears about the police closing in on him.

"Come on, you bastards," he muttered, gripping the rifle tighter. "Just try and find me."

Suddenly, something caught his eye—a flicker of movement between two trees. Jenson's heart leaped into his throat as he raised the rifle, steadying his aim and preparing to fire. But as he looked down the barrel, he realized it was just a deer, cautiously stepping out from behind the cover of the foliage.

He lowered the rifle and taking another gulp of beer. He tried to shake off the paranoia that had taken hold of him, but it clung like a stubborn stain.

"Everything's gonna be okay," he told himself, desperately seeking reassurance. "You've done this before. You're good at covering your tracks. They won't find you here."

But even as he tried to convince himself, the paranoia burrowed deeper into his mind, its tendrils coiling around his thoughts. He could almost see the bodies of Jennifer and Hadley floating in the murky waters of the Great Salt Lake, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly up at him. As he continued to peer out the window, his grip on the rifle never loosening, he wondered if he had left any damning evidence on them.

"Did they scratch me? Did I leave any fibers or hair?" he muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping anxiously against the stock of the rifle. The unanswered questions formed a knot in his stomach that only tightened with every passing moment.

He found himself recalling the moments after each murder, the weight of their lives snuffed out by his hands. The relief that had washed over him as he stood above their still forms. It was intoxicating, a power unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Like an addict craving his next high, Jenson longed to feel that control again, that sweet release from the fear that now threatened to consume him.

"Control," he whispered, the word hanging heavily in the air. "I was in control." He closed his eyes and let the memories play out in his mind, trying to recapture the feeling of invincibility that had followed each kill.

The images flickered through his consciousness like a twisted highlight reel: the shock and terror in their eyes, the way their bodies went limp when the last breath escaped their lips. Each memory fueled the fire inside him, stoking the embers of his desire for control.

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